Fic: SPN, gen, PG-13 "Feathery Wings (The Daylight's Dauphin Remix)"
Title: Feathery Wings (Daylight's Dauphin Remix)
Fandom: Supernatural
Rating: PG-13 for language
Summary: The one where, when Dean gets wings, they go camping. 4100 words. No spoilers. Set mid-season 2.
A remix of dragonsinger's Feathery Wings For the gen_remix ficathon.
***
The cranky squabbling of crows outside the motel window brought Sam drifting up from the scraps of dreams, clutching at the scattering images of paisley-toned peeps and houses that walked on duck feet. Even before he opened his eyes, Sam knew it was too early to be awake - the light from the window was pale grey, not past sunup. He stared at the window and the edgeless shadows of the birds that flitted across the curtains. Behind him, in the bed closer to the door, Dean grunted and snuffled, probably worming deeper into the covers.
“Ay, gurl, don be lak dat...” Dean crooned to the woman in his dreams, then subsided into quieter mumbles. The springs on the other bed creaked briefly. Sam stared at the window, waiting for Dean to either fall back into dreams or wake up all the way and jack off. After another round of snuffles and a long breathy sigh, Dean's breathing evened out and quieted. Sam yawned, rubbed his eyes, rubbed his face.
close to the sun in lonely lands
Part of the dream still clung to Sam's mind - a great grey beach - mud, not sand - and a house that walked along the waterline, leaving giant wedge-shaped footprints with its naked legs. He had been riding in the house, and Dean had been there with him, up on a roof with a railing like the bridge of a wooden ship, the wind blowing in their hair and the whole structure lurching under them as it walked along the shore.
The crows began cursing each other again. Sam pulled the covers aside and swung his legs out. The carpet was matted and filthy underfoot, and he sat there for a moment, dragging his toes through the nap, making the dirt pop and dance.
At his back, Dean grunted again, then began to snore.
No sleeping through that. Sam stood up and reached for his jeans, turning to look with exasperation at his brother as he pulled the waistband up over his hips.
His hands fumbled with the belt and he staggered, feet still tangled in the hems. If not for the unexpected steadiness of the room's single chair, he would have fallen. As it was, Sam stood clinging to the chair, staring at his brother, and the huge expanse of ivory wing that hung over the edge of the bed.
Oh, shit, oh shit.
He could see the doorway from where he stood, could all but touch the window. Both salt lines were undisturbed. Still holding his jeans up with one hand, Sam crept around the foot of his bed and bent over his brother. One sniff, then another.
No sulfur taint - the stink of unwashed older brother, and the remnants of last night's enchiladas, but no sulfur. Something else - something musty, with a smell like angry reptile.
Backing away, one eye still on his brother, Sam groped with one hand for his duffel, fingers finally latching onto the handle. He tugged it out, then pawed through the bag, stopping half-way to finish doing up his jeans, until he found the bottle of holy water.
The drops beaded on the feathers and then slid off, trickling onto Dean's bare skin. Neither skin nor wings smoked or hissed. Dean slept on, his mouth half open and a trickle of drool seeping out. The wing was half extended, and from where he stood, Sam could follow the upper edge of the wing as it merged with Dean's back. The muscles there looked...re-arranged.
Oh shit, oh shit, oh shit, oh shit...
Sam looked at the doorway saltline again, then straightened, took a deep breath, let it out, said, as quietly as possible, “Dean, wake up.”
Dean, predictably, didn't respond. The wing did - a shiver of the longer feathers at the edge of the wing. This close, Sam could see the other one, folded closer to Dean's body, the base of it melding seamlessly into Dean's back. Sam swallowed, leaned in and said louder, “Dean! Wake up!”
This time, Dean's breath caught. Sam bent closer. “Dean.”
“ -oh ay, ammy,” Dean mumbled. Then, more clearly, “Too early.”
Sam reached in, past the wing, and shook Dean's shoulder. “Dean, damnit, wake up!”
Dean grunted again, said, “-at?” and began to roll over. The wing rose as he did, until the new limb reached some sort of tipping point and fell over, jerking Dean backwards. Off balance, Dean flailed his arms. Arms. Wings.
“What the fuck?” The under wing, still trapped under Dean's hip, thrashed wildly. The free wing snapped open, whacking Sam solidly in the chest. He dodged backwards as Dean flailed his way out of the covert, silver blade in his fist.
“Dean, watch out!”
“Watch what? What the fuck is going on, Sam?” Dean tried to stand, over balanced and came back down on his ass again, barely missing the edge of the bed. Sam stepped forward, automatically, to catch at Dean's arm, and the wing came up between them like a bar.
Sam stared at it, his hand still outstretched, half a foot below the edge of the wing. Dean stared, then slowly raised his eyes to meet Sam's.
“Dean...”
“What the fuck?” his brother said, again.
They both stared at the wide stretch of pinion, held outstretched and trembling. The feathers were milk-white, strong and solid as though they had been carved from marble. The tips of the long flight feathers were spread like a grasping hand. Dean's chest was heaving as he stared. Slowly, slowly, it sank. When the tips of Sam's fingers touched the feathers, Dean flinched and the wing whipped around, thrashing.
“FUCK!” He froze again, half crouched on the floor, arms trembling. The wings made little motions - in-out-in-out - out of sync with Dean's breathing. Dean's fists were clenched together, pressed to the floor until the knuckles turned white.
Sam sank down facing him, at twice arm's - at wing's length - away, and said, quietly, “Dean, are you okay?”
Dean kept staring at his hands. He shook his head, a fast, hard motion.
“Did - do you know when this happened? How it happened?”
I don't know!” The wing fluttered again, closing and opening, as if Dean were waving his arms. The second time, it swept the coverlet off the bed. The second time, the wing connected with the tv. Solid smack. Dean collapsed on his butt with a yelp, and the tv rocked on its stand.
“Dude, stop it!”
“I can't!”
Sam ducked again as the wings unfurled - stronger this time, and harder. When they closed, Sam pushed up off the floor and stepped in close to Dean, catching the right wing still half furled and holding it up against Dean's body. Dean shoved back at him, “Geddoffme,” and then stopped, still half-kneeling, half sprawled on the filthy carpet between the beds. Slowly, by fits and starts, the other wing folded back in as well.
To the touch, the wings had nothing of marble about them. They were stiff, but flexible, and every layer had a different feel. Only the ones on the underside had any softness to them, or any color. Sam put a hand on the pale-grey down and Dean flinched away.
“Dude. Quit feeling me up.”
“As if,” Sam said, and then paused. “Do they hurt? I mean -”
“No. Just tickles like hell. Goosebumps. Heh.”
It wasn't funny, but Sam grinned any way. When both of wings were held tight against Dean's body - even furled, they stretched from over his head to nearly mid-calf - Dean craned his neck around until he could look Sam in the eye. “Okay. We got any rope?”
***
Sam called Bobby from the road.
Getting Dean into the car before fully daylight had been a risk - Dean's exact words were a goddamn stupid idea, Sammy - and once he was in, he could barely do more than lie on the back seat. Sam nursed a strong suspicion that half of Dean's reluctance to leave had been linked to the realization of his new 'passenger-only' status.
Dean hadn't put it that way, of course.
“We got the job, Sam. We can't just go off and leave this thing -”
“It's a simple one man grave-research, salt-and-burn. Nobody's even living in the house right now. We should go, now.”
“We have work to do, we got to -”
“- we've got to get you out of here, before your freak status becomes evident to everyone in Columbia county.”
It had taken longer than that, but not much, and the sun had barely topped the horizon before Dean - bundled into a blanket until he looked like a six-foot-plus Peruvian mummy - was trying to wedge himself into the back seat while Sam threw the rest of their bags in the trunk and tried not to hover.
They were twenty minutes out of town when Dean cleared his throat and said, “Been thinking.”
When he looked in the rear view mirror, all he could see of Dean was his denim clad knees and the edge of a wingtip. “Yeah?”
The words came out reluctantly. “You think maybe this...this feathers stuff, is related to that fairy in Clarksville?”
Sam let his breath out, long and slow. “Maybe.”
***
The Clarksville fairy had been a lost bit of forest spirit, transplanted with a huge pot of dirt inside city limits, and making a pest of herself by granting wishes to those who came down into the middle-school basement.
They had pinned her up against the boiler, locked in a ring of salt and willow twigs. The fight had gone out of her then, and she had dropped her glamor, shrinking in a heartbeat from the well-curved violet-eyed blonde down into a huddle of elbows and beige fur. Covering her head with her arms, she began to rock back and forth and wail. Sam had faltered, the charm's next phrase catching in his throat.
Dean had been less sympathetic. “Oh no, not the waterworks. Gimme a break, babe, you can do better than that.”
“Please, oh, please banish us not! Oh please, do not send us away!” The fairy - who now was resembling nothing so much as a long-legged spider - pressed her face into her hands and kept rocking back and forth.
“Come on, Sammy, finish it up.”
Sam had cleared his throat, searched his memory and started the verse again - “Salt and iron, stream and sun, round the hill -”
“No! Nonononono!” the fairy wailed, and suddenly lunged at Dean, who had the shotgun cocked and pressed to the creature's head in a heartbeat. But she - it - already had its arms wrapt around Dean's knees and was begging in its queer, pipping voice, “Please, please, let us go -”
“Sam, get this thing off me!”
“Let us go, let poor polly-pilly go! We'll do anything, anything you ask! Give you anything, do anything, please!”
Dean couldn't shoot without taking off his own kneecaps, and neither could Sam. When Sam reached to grab hold of the creature's arm, it squealed and spat and twisted around Dean's body, keeping Dean between it and Sam.
“Babe, you really should have made that offer when you still looked human. I might have taken you up on it. Now get off!”
“Anything! Anything!” Long arms flailing, patting at Dean's chest and shoulders, the fairy was all but screeching.
“I don't want -”
Suddenly, it reared up and pulled itself up Dean's body. Dean jerked, his back coming up against the boiler strut with a crash. One clawed hand held Dean's collar. The other cupped the back of Dean's neck.
“Yes, you do.” The fairy locked its gaze with Dean - one heartbeat, two, a third. Then it gave a short nod, said again, “Yes.”
Its hands shifted and Sam, who had found himself frozen in place for no reason at all, had one fist wrapped around the fairy's arm just as it pushed away from Dean and changed shape away.
Both brothers ducked away from the cawing, screeching crow that battered at their faces before diving out the broken window.
Dean had straightened, cursed the fairy for a slippery sob, and led the way out of the basement, stomping all the way.
That had been three months before - to the day, to the same phase of the moon, now that Sam thought about it.
“I'm calling Bobby.”
“He's gonna say we should have called him before.”
***
Bobby did. His exact words where, “Get someplace out of sight, and call me again. Today.”
“We were thinking of heading your way. I mean -”
“No, can't have you here. I got my sister's kids for the next two weeks, and I got enough trouble keeping them from drowning each other in the holy water. Don't need you boys complicating things.”
“Okay - I'll find something.”
“Someplace away from people. Someplace you boys can stay for a while. You remember where the old cabin was, outside of Pagosa?”
“I think I can find it.”
“Call me before you get there.”
When he hung up, Dean asked, “What did he say?”
“He said we're going camping.”
“Fuck.”
When Sam called back again, from a roadside turn-out, Dean took the hint and stayed in the car.
“You boys should have called me right away.”
“We didn't think she did anything - you know, anything serious.” It sounded lame, even to Sam, and Bobby snorted.
“The good news is that these sort of things can generally be pretty easily reversed, no after effects.”
“And the bad news?”
“At this point, you're going to have to wait out the whole year and a day before we can try another reversal. You boys really should have called me.”
***
Dean bitched all the way to Colorado.
“- and I fucking hate camping, damn bugs and crappy food that all tastes the same and - dude. Quit staring at me.”
Sam jerked his eyes away from the rear-view mirror “I'm not. It's just -”
Dean's tone was bitter. “It's just that they make me look like some freak out of a mutant movie.”
Back at the motel, Dean hadn't looked at himself in the mirror. Even now, he wouldn't meet Sam's eyes in the rear-view.
“Dean, look, man, they're not that bad. Who knows, chicks might like them -”
“Shut up.”
Of course, now would be the perfect time for a previously latent streak of normo-philia to crop up in Dean's psyche. Of course. Sam gripped the wheel harder.
A desire for normality wasn't the only strange thing that showed up. As soon as they hit the foothills, Dean started getting twitching, making Sam stop every couple of hours so he could get out of the car.
“Not here, Dean.” They were coming up on a turn-off, but a single sedan was already parked on the near side.
“Let me out.”
“Dude, there are people, anyone could see you.”
“I don't care, let me out.”
“Dean, you can't -”
“I've got the damn blanket, just let me out of the fucking car, let me out.”
Sam pulled over, at the far end, and Dean had the door open almost before the Impala stopped. Dean staggered out, slid an arm's length down the slope. Sam checked for cars, hustled around the end of the Impala.
Dean was sitting just below the edge of the slope, head buried in his arms, and bits of white feathers sticking out. After a long moment, he picked up his head.
“Of all the really, really stupid things...”
“Dean, what did you wish for?”
“What?”
“Dean, the fairy, she - she offered you a wish. What did you ask her for?”
“Nothing!”
“Nothing? Then what's this?” Sam waved his hands at the hillside, the wings, the world.
“Check for cars, Sam.” Dean's voice was weary. “And help me get back in the car.”
***
The cabin, predictably, was a mess - a fallen tree had put a hole in the roof, and a pair of skunks had made a home in the kitchen.
They pitched the tent in the front yard and ate cold beans straight from the can. Dean's claustrophobia kicked in again as soon as Dean got inside the tent, and he nearly put a hole in it, crawling out again. Sam woke to find Dean curled on top of the Impala, one wing tucked under his head, the other down to cover his bare toes, and the blanket pulled tight over his shoulders.
The second morning, Sam woke to Metallica booming across the mountianside.
“Dude! Pristine unspoiled natural paradise! Not to mention, we don't want company!”
After lunch, Sam sat on the porch in one of the unbroken chairs with Dad's journal and a notepad. He watched Dean pace back and forth, then rummage through their supplies.
“Dude! That's my toothbrush!”
“So? Get a new one.” Dean sat down on the porch steps - which were more secure than the rest of the cabin - and began fussing with his wing feathers.
“What are you doing?”
“What's it look like?” Dean drew the toothbrush along another feather.
Sam said the first thing that came to mind. “It looks like Kelly Jones in fourth grade, that's what it looks like.”
Dean glared, shifted around so that his back was to Sam. “Shut up.” The wing he pulled forward muffled the rest of his words. Sam put down the journal, leaned forward.
“What was that?”
“Go away.”
“No. You've got my toothbrush, you can answer my question.”
“They feel better when they're clean.”
Sam opened his mouth. Looked at the Impala with mud in her wheelwells and dust caked on her sides. Shut it again.
Sam didn't know anything about how the wings felt, but the ones that Dean had finished with looked better, lying straight with a bit of gleam to them. Sam swallowed.
“Well, see if you can figure out how to wash the rest of you. You smell better when you're clean.”
***
There were parts of the transformation that blended seamlessly into the brother Sam knew. Dean ate both fried chicken and scrambled eggs with gusto, and split his time between gloating over how women would call him Angel and despair that he was never getting laid again.
“You don't know that. Sometimes girls are into weird things.” Sam found his thoughts slipping into pickup lines at a bar, and wondering how he could turn it into a joke that wouldn't weird the girl out. So, my brother, he's got this kink. He likes to dress up in angel wings and, you know, wear them while, you know, he's with the girl. Strange, isn't it? Would you go for that?
Dean's voice dug Sam out of his procurer planning. “Chicks don't dig wings, dude. They dig scars, but not wings.”
Sam poked at the fire, just to make the sparks fly up. Thought about Dean's back, the skin marred by twisting ropes of pale scar tissues, lumps and whorls where the feathers ended now, leaving a dusting of pale down that became smooth flesh before it melded into Dean's spine.
When he looked up, Dean wasn't looking at his plate. He was staring across the yard, at a hand ax stuck in the fallen log.
Sam looked at it, looked at Dean. Dropped the stick and crossed the campsite in three long strides, while Dean was still getting his wings untangled. The hatchet came loose with a fast jerk.
“No.”
“Sam -”
“No.” He took a deep breath. Leveled the hatchet at Dean. “I am not cutting your wings off.”
“Not with the ax, you dumbass, you could use a knife or something.”
Sam thought about it, thought about blood pouring out like a river. “No. And I'm not letting you do that, either.”
“Sam, if it was some creepy mutant fungus that was eating me up bit by bit, don't tell me you wouldn't -”
“If you ever caught a mutant fungus, it would be with your dick, and I wouldn't touch that with a ten foot pole.”
“Ten foot - Sam, you're just jealous.”
And like that, Dean backed down, did this little move that settled his wings closer around his shoulders. Sam stared at him.
“Jealous? Of you, you indiscriminate slut?”
“Dickhead.”
“Jerk.”
“Bitch.”
***
The fifth day “camping” was spent trying to establish the limits of Dean's control over the wings. Or, as Dean said, “Time to see if these damn things work.”
Sam couldn't remember, actually, why Dean had thought that scrambling up the tree was better than trying to launch from the ground. The hour of trying to get Dean airborne from the little meadow had been frustratingly non-productive.
So, instead, Sam found himself waist deep in the lake, looking up at Dean, who was clinging to an overhanging limb and - despite his bravado - showing no signs of jumping off.
Dean's eyes were wide and his chest was heaving. Sam thought that if he were close enough, he could see Dean's arms trembling from the strain.
“Dean, come on.”
“No!”
Sam sighed. “Dean, you fucking pussy. Quit wasting my time!”
“Shut up!”
“Come down here and make me, you gutless won -”
Dean let go. Sam stared for a moment, heart in his throat, as Dean outright fell the first few feet. Then the wings spread, and Dean's vector abruptly changed. Sam had half a second of awestruck wonder -
- my god, they're huge, he's huge -
- before Dean's face filled his vision - Dean's face, and his fists, held clenched before him. Sam ducked, but not fast enough. The blow made his shoulder go numb even as the water closed over his head.
Sam struggled back to the surface in time to see Dean trying to circle back around. He was losing altitude, though, and one wing tip dropped to dig into the water. Dean abruptly stalled and fell into eighteen inches of water, his forward momentum pushing him toward the shore in a flailing shower of spray. Then he hit the real shoreline and fell, wings tucked close as he tumbled over and over.
“Dean!” Sam plowed through the waist-high water, gave it up after three strides and leaned over to swim the hundred feet to the other shore. He came up out of the water to meet Dean's sand-crusted fist.
“Ow, what was that for?”
“For calling me a pussy, you fucking dickhead!”
“Dean, did you see what you just did? You flew!”
“Shut up.”
“You flew! My god, you FLEW!” Despite the wind on his wet clothes, Sam was grinning ear to ear.
Back at the cabin, Sam built the fire back up again, and dug into the cooler for the hamburger. Dean hauled his duffel out and pulled on his other pair of jeans.
“Going up slope, going to sleep.”
“Don't you want to eat?” Sam did, and he hadn't been the one climbing and flying.
“No.”
“Dean...”
“Leave me alone, Sam.” Dean stalked out of the yard, the blanket slung over one shoulder.
When the light changed to the softer glow that meant evening was coming on, and Dean still hadn't come back, Sam went looking for him.
He found him on a rock, staring out at the hillside.
“Dean.”
His brother didn't turn his head. “Shhh. Don't scare it.”
Sam followed the direction of Dean's gaze, saw a raven staring at them. Slowly, Sam settled down beside Dean.
A second raven glided up to perch beside the first.
“I did wish.”
Sam clenched his fingers until his nails bit into his palms.
“I wished...I wished for something that would make it so you would never leave me.”
“Dean, I -”
His brother ducked his head. “Don't.”
Sam subsided. Finally, he said, “It's just a year. Less, now. By next summer, we'll be clear of it.”
Dean's fingers clenched and relaxed, but he didn't say anything. Finally, he lifted his head and said, “Dude. I flew. How fucking cool is that?”
“Pretty damn cool.”
“You know what?” Dean rose, dusting his hands off on his jeans, automatically adjusting for the wingspan now. Turning to face Sam, he said, “I think it's so damn cool, you should fix me hamburgers.”
“Fix them yourself, bitch.”
“Be nice to me, or I'll make you fix fried chicken.”
Fandom: Supernatural
Rating: PG-13 for language
Summary: The one where, when Dean gets wings, they go camping. 4100 words. No spoilers. Set mid-season 2.
A remix of dragonsinger's Feathery Wings For the gen_remix ficathon.
***
The cranky squabbling of crows outside the motel window brought Sam drifting up from the scraps of dreams, clutching at the scattering images of paisley-toned peeps and houses that walked on duck feet. Even before he opened his eyes, Sam knew it was too early to be awake - the light from the window was pale grey, not past sunup. He stared at the window and the edgeless shadows of the birds that flitted across the curtains. Behind him, in the bed closer to the door, Dean grunted and snuffled, probably worming deeper into the covers.
“Ay, gurl, don be lak dat...” Dean crooned to the woman in his dreams, then subsided into quieter mumbles. The springs on the other bed creaked briefly. Sam stared at the window, waiting for Dean to either fall back into dreams or wake up all the way and jack off. After another round of snuffles and a long breathy sigh, Dean's breathing evened out and quieted. Sam yawned, rubbed his eyes, rubbed his face.
close to the sun in lonely lands
Part of the dream still clung to Sam's mind - a great grey beach - mud, not sand - and a house that walked along the waterline, leaving giant wedge-shaped footprints with its naked legs. He had been riding in the house, and Dean had been there with him, up on a roof with a railing like the bridge of a wooden ship, the wind blowing in their hair and the whole structure lurching under them as it walked along the shore.
The crows began cursing each other again. Sam pulled the covers aside and swung his legs out. The carpet was matted and filthy underfoot, and he sat there for a moment, dragging his toes through the nap, making the dirt pop and dance.
At his back, Dean grunted again, then began to snore.
No sleeping through that. Sam stood up and reached for his jeans, turning to look with exasperation at his brother as he pulled the waistband up over his hips.
His hands fumbled with the belt and he staggered, feet still tangled in the hems. If not for the unexpected steadiness of the room's single chair, he would have fallen. As it was, Sam stood clinging to the chair, staring at his brother, and the huge expanse of ivory wing that hung over the edge of the bed.
Oh, shit, oh shit.
He could see the doorway from where he stood, could all but touch the window. Both salt lines were undisturbed. Still holding his jeans up with one hand, Sam crept around the foot of his bed and bent over his brother. One sniff, then another.
No sulfur taint - the stink of unwashed older brother, and the remnants of last night's enchiladas, but no sulfur. Something else - something musty, with a smell like angry reptile.
Backing away, one eye still on his brother, Sam groped with one hand for his duffel, fingers finally latching onto the handle. He tugged it out, then pawed through the bag, stopping half-way to finish doing up his jeans, until he found the bottle of holy water.
The drops beaded on the feathers and then slid off, trickling onto Dean's bare skin. Neither skin nor wings smoked or hissed. Dean slept on, his mouth half open and a trickle of drool seeping out. The wing was half extended, and from where he stood, Sam could follow the upper edge of the wing as it merged with Dean's back. The muscles there looked...re-arranged.
Oh shit, oh shit, oh shit, oh shit...
Sam looked at the doorway saltline again, then straightened, took a deep breath, let it out, said, as quietly as possible, “Dean, wake up.”
Dean, predictably, didn't respond. The wing did - a shiver of the longer feathers at the edge of the wing. This close, Sam could see the other one, folded closer to Dean's body, the base of it melding seamlessly into Dean's back. Sam swallowed, leaned in and said louder, “Dean! Wake up!”
This time, Dean's breath caught. Sam bent closer. “Dean.”
“ -oh ay, ammy,” Dean mumbled. Then, more clearly, “Too early.”
Sam reached in, past the wing, and shook Dean's shoulder. “Dean, damnit, wake up!”
Dean grunted again, said, “-at?” and began to roll over. The wing rose as he did, until the new limb reached some sort of tipping point and fell over, jerking Dean backwards. Off balance, Dean flailed his arms. Arms. Wings.
“What the fuck?” The under wing, still trapped under Dean's hip, thrashed wildly. The free wing snapped open, whacking Sam solidly in the chest. He dodged backwards as Dean flailed his way out of the covert, silver blade in his fist.
“Dean, watch out!”
“Watch what? What the fuck is going on, Sam?” Dean tried to stand, over balanced and came back down on his ass again, barely missing the edge of the bed. Sam stepped forward, automatically, to catch at Dean's arm, and the wing came up between them like a bar.
Sam stared at it, his hand still outstretched, half a foot below the edge of the wing. Dean stared, then slowly raised his eyes to meet Sam's.
“Dean...”
“What the fuck?” his brother said, again.
They both stared at the wide stretch of pinion, held outstretched and trembling. The feathers were milk-white, strong and solid as though they had been carved from marble. The tips of the long flight feathers were spread like a grasping hand. Dean's chest was heaving as he stared. Slowly, slowly, it sank. When the tips of Sam's fingers touched the feathers, Dean flinched and the wing whipped around, thrashing.
“FUCK!” He froze again, half crouched on the floor, arms trembling. The wings made little motions - in-out-in-out - out of sync with Dean's breathing. Dean's fists were clenched together, pressed to the floor until the knuckles turned white.
Sam sank down facing him, at twice arm's - at wing's length - away, and said, quietly, “Dean, are you okay?”
Dean kept staring at his hands. He shook his head, a fast, hard motion.
“Did - do you know when this happened? How it happened?”
I don't know!” The wing fluttered again, closing and opening, as if Dean were waving his arms. The second time, it swept the coverlet off the bed. The second time, the wing connected with the tv. Solid smack. Dean collapsed on his butt with a yelp, and the tv rocked on its stand.
“Dude, stop it!”
“I can't!”
Sam ducked again as the wings unfurled - stronger this time, and harder. When they closed, Sam pushed up off the floor and stepped in close to Dean, catching the right wing still half furled and holding it up against Dean's body. Dean shoved back at him, “Geddoffme,” and then stopped, still half-kneeling, half sprawled on the filthy carpet between the beds. Slowly, by fits and starts, the other wing folded back in as well.
To the touch, the wings had nothing of marble about them. They were stiff, but flexible, and every layer had a different feel. Only the ones on the underside had any softness to them, or any color. Sam put a hand on the pale-grey down and Dean flinched away.
“Dude. Quit feeling me up.”
“As if,” Sam said, and then paused. “Do they hurt? I mean -”
“No. Just tickles like hell. Goosebumps. Heh.”
It wasn't funny, but Sam grinned any way. When both of wings were held tight against Dean's body - even furled, they stretched from over his head to nearly mid-calf - Dean craned his neck around until he could look Sam in the eye. “Okay. We got any rope?”
***
Sam called Bobby from the road.
Getting Dean into the car before fully daylight had been a risk - Dean's exact words were a goddamn stupid idea, Sammy - and once he was in, he could barely do more than lie on the back seat. Sam nursed a strong suspicion that half of Dean's reluctance to leave had been linked to the realization of his new 'passenger-only' status.
Dean hadn't put it that way, of course.
“We got the job, Sam. We can't just go off and leave this thing -”
“It's a simple one man grave-research, salt-and-burn. Nobody's even living in the house right now. We should go, now.”
“We have work to do, we got to -”
“- we've got to get you out of here, before your freak status becomes evident to everyone in Columbia county.”
It had taken longer than that, but not much, and the sun had barely topped the horizon before Dean - bundled into a blanket until he looked like a six-foot-plus Peruvian mummy - was trying to wedge himself into the back seat while Sam threw the rest of their bags in the trunk and tried not to hover.
They were twenty minutes out of town when Dean cleared his throat and said, “Been thinking.”
When he looked in the rear view mirror, all he could see of Dean was his denim clad knees and the edge of a wingtip. “Yeah?”
The words came out reluctantly. “You think maybe this...this feathers stuff, is related to that fairy in Clarksville?”
Sam let his breath out, long and slow. “Maybe.”
***
The Clarksville fairy had been a lost bit of forest spirit, transplanted with a huge pot of dirt inside city limits, and making a pest of herself by granting wishes to those who came down into the middle-school basement.
They had pinned her up against the boiler, locked in a ring of salt and willow twigs. The fight had gone out of her then, and she had dropped her glamor, shrinking in a heartbeat from the well-curved violet-eyed blonde down into a huddle of elbows and beige fur. Covering her head with her arms, she began to rock back and forth and wail. Sam had faltered, the charm's next phrase catching in his throat.
Dean had been less sympathetic. “Oh no, not the waterworks. Gimme a break, babe, you can do better than that.”
“Please, oh, please banish us not! Oh please, do not send us away!” The fairy - who now was resembling nothing so much as a long-legged spider - pressed her face into her hands and kept rocking back and forth.
“Come on, Sammy, finish it up.”
Sam had cleared his throat, searched his memory and started the verse again - “Salt and iron, stream and sun, round the hill -”
“No! Nonononono!” the fairy wailed, and suddenly lunged at Dean, who had the shotgun cocked and pressed to the creature's head in a heartbeat. But she - it - already had its arms wrapt around Dean's knees and was begging in its queer, pipping voice, “Please, please, let us go -”
“Sam, get this thing off me!”
“Let us go, let poor polly-pilly go! We'll do anything, anything you ask! Give you anything, do anything, please!”
Dean couldn't shoot without taking off his own kneecaps, and neither could Sam. When Sam reached to grab hold of the creature's arm, it squealed and spat and twisted around Dean's body, keeping Dean between it and Sam.
“Babe, you really should have made that offer when you still looked human. I might have taken you up on it. Now get off!”
“Anything! Anything!” Long arms flailing, patting at Dean's chest and shoulders, the fairy was all but screeching.
“I don't want -”
Suddenly, it reared up and pulled itself up Dean's body. Dean jerked, his back coming up against the boiler strut with a crash. One clawed hand held Dean's collar. The other cupped the back of Dean's neck.
“Yes, you do.” The fairy locked its gaze with Dean - one heartbeat, two, a third. Then it gave a short nod, said again, “Yes.”
Its hands shifted and Sam, who had found himself frozen in place for no reason at all, had one fist wrapped around the fairy's arm just as it pushed away from Dean and changed shape away.
Both brothers ducked away from the cawing, screeching crow that battered at their faces before diving out the broken window.
Dean had straightened, cursed the fairy for a slippery sob, and led the way out of the basement, stomping all the way.
That had been three months before - to the day, to the same phase of the moon, now that Sam thought about it.
“I'm calling Bobby.”
“He's gonna say we should have called him before.”
***
Bobby did. His exact words where, “Get someplace out of sight, and call me again. Today.”
“We were thinking of heading your way. I mean -”
“No, can't have you here. I got my sister's kids for the next two weeks, and I got enough trouble keeping them from drowning each other in the holy water. Don't need you boys complicating things.”
“Okay - I'll find something.”
“Someplace away from people. Someplace you boys can stay for a while. You remember where the old cabin was, outside of Pagosa?”
“I think I can find it.”
“Call me before you get there.”
When he hung up, Dean asked, “What did he say?”
“He said we're going camping.”
“Fuck.”
When Sam called back again, from a roadside turn-out, Dean took the hint and stayed in the car.
“You boys should have called me right away.”
“We didn't think she did anything - you know, anything serious.” It sounded lame, even to Sam, and Bobby snorted.
“The good news is that these sort of things can generally be pretty easily reversed, no after effects.”
“And the bad news?”
“At this point, you're going to have to wait out the whole year and a day before we can try another reversal. You boys really should have called me.”
***
Dean bitched all the way to Colorado.
“- and I fucking hate camping, damn bugs and crappy food that all tastes the same and - dude. Quit staring at me.”
Sam jerked his eyes away from the rear-view mirror “I'm not. It's just -”
Dean's tone was bitter. “It's just that they make me look like some freak out of a mutant movie.”
Back at the motel, Dean hadn't looked at himself in the mirror. Even now, he wouldn't meet Sam's eyes in the rear-view.
“Dean, look, man, they're not that bad. Who knows, chicks might like them -”
“Shut up.”
Of course, now would be the perfect time for a previously latent streak of normo-philia to crop up in Dean's psyche. Of course. Sam gripped the wheel harder.
A desire for normality wasn't the only strange thing that showed up. As soon as they hit the foothills, Dean started getting twitching, making Sam stop every couple of hours so he could get out of the car.
“Not here, Dean.” They were coming up on a turn-off, but a single sedan was already parked on the near side.
“Let me out.”
“Dude, there are people, anyone could see you.”
“I don't care, let me out.”
“Dean, you can't -”
“I've got the damn blanket, just let me out of the fucking car, let me out.”
Sam pulled over, at the far end, and Dean had the door open almost before the Impala stopped. Dean staggered out, slid an arm's length down the slope. Sam checked for cars, hustled around the end of the Impala.
Dean was sitting just below the edge of the slope, head buried in his arms, and bits of white feathers sticking out. After a long moment, he picked up his head.
“Of all the really, really stupid things...”
“Dean, what did you wish for?”
“What?”
“Dean, the fairy, she - she offered you a wish. What did you ask her for?”
“Nothing!”
“Nothing? Then what's this?” Sam waved his hands at the hillside, the wings, the world.
“Check for cars, Sam.” Dean's voice was weary. “And help me get back in the car.”
***
The cabin, predictably, was a mess - a fallen tree had put a hole in the roof, and a pair of skunks had made a home in the kitchen.
They pitched the tent in the front yard and ate cold beans straight from the can. Dean's claustrophobia kicked in again as soon as Dean got inside the tent, and he nearly put a hole in it, crawling out again. Sam woke to find Dean curled on top of the Impala, one wing tucked under his head, the other down to cover his bare toes, and the blanket pulled tight over his shoulders.
The second morning, Sam woke to Metallica booming across the mountianside.
“Dude! Pristine unspoiled natural paradise! Not to mention, we don't want company!”
After lunch, Sam sat on the porch in one of the unbroken chairs with Dad's journal and a notepad. He watched Dean pace back and forth, then rummage through their supplies.
“Dude! That's my toothbrush!”
“So? Get a new one.” Dean sat down on the porch steps - which were more secure than the rest of the cabin - and began fussing with his wing feathers.
“What are you doing?”
“What's it look like?” Dean drew the toothbrush along another feather.
Sam said the first thing that came to mind. “It looks like Kelly Jones in fourth grade, that's what it looks like.”
Dean glared, shifted around so that his back was to Sam. “Shut up.” The wing he pulled forward muffled the rest of his words. Sam put down the journal, leaned forward.
“What was that?”
“Go away.”
“No. You've got my toothbrush, you can answer my question.”
“They feel better when they're clean.”
Sam opened his mouth. Looked at the Impala with mud in her wheelwells and dust caked on her sides. Shut it again.
Sam didn't know anything about how the wings felt, but the ones that Dean had finished with looked better, lying straight with a bit of gleam to them. Sam swallowed.
“Well, see if you can figure out how to wash the rest of you. You smell better when you're clean.”
***
There were parts of the transformation that blended seamlessly into the brother Sam knew. Dean ate both fried chicken and scrambled eggs with gusto, and split his time between gloating over how women would call him Angel and despair that he was never getting laid again.
“You don't know that. Sometimes girls are into weird things.” Sam found his thoughts slipping into pickup lines at a bar, and wondering how he could turn it into a joke that wouldn't weird the girl out. So, my brother, he's got this kink. He likes to dress up in angel wings and, you know, wear them while, you know, he's with the girl. Strange, isn't it? Would you go for that?
Dean's voice dug Sam out of his procurer planning. “Chicks don't dig wings, dude. They dig scars, but not wings.”
Sam poked at the fire, just to make the sparks fly up. Thought about Dean's back, the skin marred by twisting ropes of pale scar tissues, lumps and whorls where the feathers ended now, leaving a dusting of pale down that became smooth flesh before it melded into Dean's spine.
When he looked up, Dean wasn't looking at his plate. He was staring across the yard, at a hand ax stuck in the fallen log.
Sam looked at it, looked at Dean. Dropped the stick and crossed the campsite in three long strides, while Dean was still getting his wings untangled. The hatchet came loose with a fast jerk.
“No.”
“Sam -”
“No.” He took a deep breath. Leveled the hatchet at Dean. “I am not cutting your wings off.”
“Not with the ax, you dumbass, you could use a knife or something.”
Sam thought about it, thought about blood pouring out like a river. “No. And I'm not letting you do that, either.”
“Sam, if it was some creepy mutant fungus that was eating me up bit by bit, don't tell me you wouldn't -”
“If you ever caught a mutant fungus, it would be with your dick, and I wouldn't touch that with a ten foot pole.”
“Ten foot - Sam, you're just jealous.”
And like that, Dean backed down, did this little move that settled his wings closer around his shoulders. Sam stared at him.
“Jealous? Of you, you indiscriminate slut?”
“Dickhead.”
“Jerk.”
“Bitch.”
***
The fifth day “camping” was spent trying to establish the limits of Dean's control over the wings. Or, as Dean said, “Time to see if these damn things work.”
Sam couldn't remember, actually, why Dean had thought that scrambling up the tree was better than trying to launch from the ground. The hour of trying to get Dean airborne from the little meadow had been frustratingly non-productive.
So, instead, Sam found himself waist deep in the lake, looking up at Dean, who was clinging to an overhanging limb and - despite his bravado - showing no signs of jumping off.
Dean's eyes were wide and his chest was heaving. Sam thought that if he were close enough, he could see Dean's arms trembling from the strain.
“Dean, come on.”
“No!”
Sam sighed. “Dean, you fucking pussy. Quit wasting my time!”
“Shut up!”
“Come down here and make me, you gutless won -”
Dean let go. Sam stared for a moment, heart in his throat, as Dean outright fell the first few feet. Then the wings spread, and Dean's vector abruptly changed. Sam had half a second of awestruck wonder -
- my god, they're huge, he's huge -
- before Dean's face filled his vision - Dean's face, and his fists, held clenched before him. Sam ducked, but not fast enough. The blow made his shoulder go numb even as the water closed over his head.
Sam struggled back to the surface in time to see Dean trying to circle back around. He was losing altitude, though, and one wing tip dropped to dig into the water. Dean abruptly stalled and fell into eighteen inches of water, his forward momentum pushing him toward the shore in a flailing shower of spray. Then he hit the real shoreline and fell, wings tucked close as he tumbled over and over.
“Dean!” Sam plowed through the waist-high water, gave it up after three strides and leaned over to swim the hundred feet to the other shore. He came up out of the water to meet Dean's sand-crusted fist.
“Ow, what was that for?”
“For calling me a pussy, you fucking dickhead!”
“Dean, did you see what you just did? You flew!”
“Shut up.”
“You flew! My god, you FLEW!” Despite the wind on his wet clothes, Sam was grinning ear to ear.
Back at the cabin, Sam built the fire back up again, and dug into the cooler for the hamburger. Dean hauled his duffel out and pulled on his other pair of jeans.
“Going up slope, going to sleep.”
“Don't you want to eat?” Sam did, and he hadn't been the one climbing and flying.
“No.”
“Dean...”
“Leave me alone, Sam.” Dean stalked out of the yard, the blanket slung over one shoulder.
When the light changed to the softer glow that meant evening was coming on, and Dean still hadn't come back, Sam went looking for him.
He found him on a rock, staring out at the hillside.
“Dean.”
His brother didn't turn his head. “Shhh. Don't scare it.”
Sam followed the direction of Dean's gaze, saw a raven staring at them. Slowly, Sam settled down beside Dean.
A second raven glided up to perch beside the first.
“I did wish.”
Sam clenched his fingers until his nails bit into his palms.
“I wished...I wished for something that would make it so you would never leave me.”
“Dean, I -”
His brother ducked his head. “Don't.”
Sam subsided. Finally, he said, “It's just a year. Less, now. By next summer, we'll be clear of it.”
Dean's fingers clenched and relaxed, but he didn't say anything. Finally, he lifted his head and said, “Dude. I flew. How fucking cool is that?”
“Pretty damn cool.”
“You know what?” Dean rose, dusting his hands off on his jeans, automatically adjusting for the wingspan now. Turning to face Sam, he said, “I think it's so damn cool, you should fix me hamburgers.”
“Fix them yourself, bitch.”
“Be nice to me, or I'll make you fix fried chicken.”